


Blood and Glitter

by vitovitovito



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Hard-Boiled Police Shit, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, Tenderness, Under-negotiated Kink, Vigilante AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-07-04 10:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15839391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitovitovito/pseuds/vitovitovito
Summary: Nines becomes a vigilante. Gavin tries to handle it.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Reading a lot of true crime lately! Got me thinking about Gavin and Nines, and I wanted to write them something both intense & tender. 
> 
> Some pretty heavy stuff is referenced (child murder, rape etc), but it's never in detail and it's never on-screen. 
> 
> This is the first piece of fanfiction I've ever written! Wish me luck!

The first time Nines killed a suspect, Gavin thought it was just - one of those things. 

It comes with the territory, right? The job takes a lot out of you - shit goes wrong sometimes, sure. Heat of the moment, situations get out of control, those long-honed killer instincts rear up unexpectedly, and - things happen. Sure, things happen.

Of course, in the moment, Gavin didn’t rationalize it. In the moment, it was just another gig.

“Alright, I’ll take the front door, you take the back,” Gavin says, unholstering his Glock, clicking the flashlight onto its barrel. “Just in case.”

Nines gives a curt nod, slips silently away, and Gavin watches his shadow ghost past the edge of the house. It’s one of those miserable old Victorian tinderboxes, all strange angles and rotting gray wood. There’s thousands of ‘em in the older parts of town, packed with immigrants and squatters and amateur ice labs. Wintertime brings low rumbling crashes as the frozen houses break apart. Then come summer, the local punks swarm this neighborhood, gasoline canisters in hand, and they’ll turn whole blocks into ash. Gavin almost smiles. Maybe real soon, this deathtrap will be a smoking hole in the ground.

Gavin’s earpiece clicks on. “In position,” Nines says softly.

Rabbit-fast heartbeat, hands tight around his gun, Gavin takes a stance and kicks the fucking door down. It easily snaps off its hinges, hits the warped wooden floor in an explosion of dust and woodchips.

“DPD! Hands where I can see ‘em!” Gavin howls, his voice shockingly loud in the silence. Twilight’s hanging heavy, now, a few last notes of autumn sunlight lighting up clouds of dust. Gavin’s legs buzz. The Glock feels huge in his hands. 

The smell hits him like a cinderblock. Gavin almost stumbles, shifts the Glock to one hand and blocks his nose with the other, but it makes no difference. Death settled in this house straight down to the bone.

“Fuck!” Gavin barks, flashlight beam pivoting wildly as he spins on his feet. He sees the front room in frantic bursts of light - broken furniture, crumpled clothes, empty Thirium canisters, dark patches of mold shining wetly in the darkness- “Nines, you smell that? There’s a body in here!”

“Copy,” says Nines. “Signs of movement in the northeast.”

“Oh, really,” Gavins says blandly. Who the fuck keeps track of northeast.

Nines doesn’t sigh, exactly, but Gavin can picture his facial expression. “Forward, left, slight right.”

Gavin creeps forward. He sweeps the flashlight back and forth, trying to methodically clear the area instead of wildly spinning at every creak of the walls, but it’s like a fucking horror movie in here, alright. His flashlight settles on a bright spot of pastel - oh, fuck, it’s a pile of clothes, covered in cartoon strawberries, oh fuck it’s a kid’s dress - and Gavin’s throat closes up.

“Kitchen clear. Rear hallway clear. Continuing east,” Nines says.

“Hey, there’s, uh,” Gavin begins thickly, crouching laboriously next to the crumpled dress.

“Say again?” Nines asks. Gavin hears him in stereo now - scratchy digital Nines in his earpiece, and Nines’ real voice a few rooms away.

Gavin leans over the clothes very, very slowly. Tilts his flashlight over the dress, watches pastel pinks turn to washed-out yellow in the glare of the light. Deep red stains, all over.

“Bloody clothes,” Gavin says.

“How fresh?”

Gavin swallows hard, squints. “I mean. Wet, I guess.”

“Copy. Dining room clear. Heading east.”

Gavin hisses, stands up with two popping knees and a rush of blood to the head. “Hey, hold up!”

“Secure the kitchen, Detective,” replies a creepy-as-hell computer voice, which means NInes is brain-texting Gavin’s earpiece instead of responding verbally, which means Nines is going stealth, which means -

“Fuck,” Gavin says to no one, heart hammering. On the one hand, Nines is about to go get a collar. On the other, securing a cleared room only means one thing.

The smell of decomposition intensifies as Gavin creeps through the dining room, through the hallway, tracing Nines’ footsteps steps in the dust. At the end of the hallway, Gavin stops, shoves his back into the wall, aims the Glock skyward, dry-heaves into his armpit. Takes a beat, wipes the sweat off his forehead. Steps into the kitchen.

Gavin’s back in the hallway in under a minute. “What the fuck,” he chants into the earpiece, “you prick, what the fuck. ‘Oh, secure the kitchen!’ Fuck you. I’m coming down the stairs, don’t shoot me.”

“Negative,” says Nines’ text-to-speech voice.

Gavin hustles down the stairs, gun at the ready. “Negative about not shooting me or--”

_Crash!_

Gavin flinches hard, grinds to a halt two steps above the blackness at the bottom of the staircase. “DPD! Hands where I can see ‘em!” he roars, and for the first time hears a soft panting out in the darkness, a soft frantic hah-hah-hah somewhere in front of him, someone’s here, someone human and -

“I SAID,” Gavin bawls at the top of his lungs, flashlight blurring past rusted metal bookshelves, crumpled bandages, fuck, a flash of eyes in the darkness a glint of something fucking _sharp_ \-- “HANDS UP! DON’T MOVE! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!”

“Hah,” gasps a voice Gavin can’t see - a male voice, delirious, ragged at the edges, low and close, low and close and moving closer - “hah, hah, hhh---”

A small blue circle blinks into view. One shot rings out in the darkness.

Gavin pads down the stairs with his ears ringing painfully, keeps the gun trained on the place he’d last heard the voice. Then there’s a dull, crumpling _thud_ , and Gavin exhales.

“Damn,” Gavin says softly, “fuck ‘em up, cowboy.” Through his damaged eardrums, it sounds like he’s underwater. He pans the flashlight until he finds Nines in the darkness.

Nines looks composed as ever. Hair still perfect, gaze calm and sharp, LED spinning a soft blue. His fucking turtleneck isn’t even wrinkled. Nines holds a Sig Sauer with detached grace, still tilted towards the unmoving body at his feet.

Nines looks up at Gavin with a blink. “I believe this is our man,” Nines says blandly. LED’s still spinning blue. He replaces the gun’s safety, slips it back into his shoulder holster with two easy motions. Gavin swallows. “You saw the kitchen, I assume.”

“Yeah, way to spring that on me,” Gavin growls, holstering his gun as well. “Fuck. Could’ve used a heads-up. What was that crash? Why’d you shoot him?”

Nines crouches beside the body, eyes narrowed. Gavin does not look at Nines’ ass. “He was poised to attack you,” Nines says softly, and points to the corpse’s right hand. Gavin inches closer, angles his flashlight, and sees the glint of a wicked-looking serrated blade.

“Okay,” Gavin says slowly. Probably the murder weapon from the kitchen. “Why didn’t you wait for backup?”

Nines doesn’t look up. “I’d asked you to secure the girl in the kitchen.”

“Ding ding, misdirect, bitch. Why didn’t you call me for cover?”

There’s a long beat of silence. Gavin watches Nines’ LED cycle blue, yellow, blue. Then - Nines rocks back on his heels, runs a hand through his hair. He fixes Gavin in with that icy gaze, and Gavin almost flinches. “I don’t know.”

Gavin looks away. What do you say to that?

Nines refocuses on the body, his LED flickering yellow for an instant. “Forensics are en route. I’m willing to collect more evidence as long as we’re here, but this is still technically FBI jurisdiction. We’ll lose clearance as soon as they arrive.”

“Fine,” Gavin says slowly. “I’ll get the perimeter, I guess.”

Nines nods. He stands up and moves beyond the reach of Gavin’s flashlight, tracing a dark stain on the concrete. More mangled bodies, probably, and Gavin can’t quite find it within himself to follow Nines into the dark. Instead he crouches into the spot Nines just vacated, and squints down at the perp.

Guy looks like a cartoon of a used-car salesman. Blotchy, crumpled-up face. Kinda like Gavin’s second stepdad, actually, the one still serving time. White, mid-fifties or sixties, face frozen in a rictus of pain or delirium or - something, fuck, Gavin doesn’t know. He hopes he never knows.

And in his forehead - Gavin leans closer.

One perfect shot, dead-center in Pugliesi’s forehead. 

The killer’s name was Anthony Wayne Pugliesi. Over a suspected thirty-year career in kidnapping and homicide, he’d left a remarkably DA-friendly trail. Despite scattered witnesses and a detailed account of Pugliesi bragging about his crimes from one of his cellmates, Pugliesi couldn’t be held. The evidence was dismissed, the witnesses discredited, and the case folded. Illinois justice only managed to stick him with three counts B&E, one count kidnappning. He’d served four years before accepting parole on good behavior.

Pugliesi remained a person of interest in dozens of ongoing cases. While in prison, he’d willingly offered solid intel on other killers - to Gavin’s disgust, the guy was charismatic, and he knew everybody. Pugliesi loved to slowly dole out information, watching his case workers eat up every word. The FBI believed that Pugliesi, a man aware of the noose looming ever closer, would eventually take a plea bargain.

Nines knew all of this, of course. Nines knew more about Anthony Wayne Pugliesi than Gavin did, or anybody at the DPD, or possibly even more than the FBI. Nines was built to know this stuff and stay cool under fire, right, Gavin’s seen him pull off some _bullshit_. Nines doesn’t panic, Nines doesn’t get worked up. Nines just does the job. And Nines, the most rules-oriented sumbitch Gavin’s ever met, faced Anthony Wayne Pugliesi and did not even _attempt_ a non-lethal intervention. He didn’t try to restrain him, even though Nines was knifeproof, even though Gavin had seen him blow through hopped-up psychos on more than one occasion. Pugliesi’s testimony could’ve aided dozens of cold cases, and Nines didn’t even aim for the prick’s center mass. Nines shot this guy in his fucking skull.

Gavin leans back on his heels.

Huh.

* 

It’s been almost ten months, now. Ten months post-revolution. Ten months of near-constant crisis on the news, ten months of riots and protests and counter-protests fucking up Gavin’s commute, ten months of fury in Detroit.

Nine months since RK-900 was assigned to Detective Gavin Reed. Eight-and-a-half months since Gavin spat in RK-900’s morning can of Thirium and in response, RK-900 punched Gavin so hard that the back of his skull left a three-inch crater in the drywall behind him. Eight-and-a-half months since Gavin finally decided that he did actually want to keep his job, eight-and-a-half months since they stepped into Fowler’s office together and lied, lied, lied their asses off. Asshole, it was a barfight. None of your business. No, sir, of course not. Detective Reed and I certainly have a capable working relationship. Seven months since Gavin begrudgingly started calling him Nines.

Four months since a drunken perp knocked out one of Nines’ front teeth, which shouldn’t even be _possible_ , according to Connor, and Gavin had laughed so hard he nearly threw up. Nines had just looked so _bewildered_ , right, this fucking demigod lain low by an offhand thrown elbow, and suddenly Nines was a person. Gavin remembered it clear as day - Nines poking around in the empty socket, looking more affronted than Gavin had ever seen him, Officer Tina Chen desperately trying to keep this drunken rando in a headlock while howling at Connor to calm down, he’s fine, it’s JUST A TOOTH, and Gavin just laughing and laughing. Before, Nines was untouchable. Now he was real.

Three-and-a-half months since Gavin’s apartment was finally condemned and Nines gamely helped him wedge a vintage bedframe down three flights of spiral staircases. Three-and-a-half months since Nines got his missing tooth replaced - Gavin was furious. Nines looked better with a piece missing. 

Two months since their highest-profile bust, a hotel mogul who murdered his ex-wife and their infant son, walked off scot-free. One month since Gavin, still drunkenly mourning truth and justice in the United States, threw his cellphone at his lightswitch, bashing a crater in the drywall that he still hadn’t repaired. Eighteen days since Chen made detective, and the resulting celebration incurred Gavin’s most terrific hangover in years. Nines had taken him home that night, his silhouette dark and sharp against the dancing lights outside the cab. Nines unlocked Gavin’s apartment for him, raised an eyebrow at Gavin’s pigsty apartment but didn’t comment. Nines said “Good night, Detective.” Nines turned and left.

Eleven days since the FBI informed the DPD that Anthony Wayne Pugliesi had slipped his parole officer, escaped Chicago and fled into Michigan. Eight days since Gavin squeezed some solid intel out of a suspect, and Nines did some computer shit and turned that intel into a map to a run-down Victorian house in the oldest part of town. Eight days since Nines tapped Pugliesi right in the fucking skull, booyah bitches, hold for applause. Eight days off-duty while the Powers That Be investigated their investigation, citing “overkill”, citing “abuse of force”, and didn’t that just beat all. They perform a public fucking service and in return, they get the bench. Hell of a world.

Gavin didn’t like Nines, exactly. Like wasn’t the word. Gavin didn’t know what the word was, and he didn’t particularly care to know, but Nines had crept up on him. Nines was - in his life, at any rate. Nines was part of his life. 

* 

“Alright, last round means it’s time for a toast,” says Hank Anderson, snagging one last nacho before raising a half-full glass of stout. “To Nines and Reed,” he says. “Way to beat a murder charge!”

“Wow. Tasteful,” Tina Chen remarks, throwing down a gulp of Pabst. Gavin snorts in agreement, carefully eyeing Nines, who looked on archly with no comment whatsoever. Ben Collins, seated to Hank’s right, grumbles indistinctly into his Coors, and on the other side of their table, Connor twists uncomfortably in his seat.

“Hank, I don’t think that’s--”

“Relax, it’s a joke,” Hank rasps. “Everybody loses their shit on a child-killer at some point. Practic’ly a rite of passage. No big deal.”

“Here’s a thought,” Collins says brightly. “Let’s not talk about dead kids.”

Gavin leans forward. “Alright, what kinda dead people we gonna talk about? Anybody workin’ any actual fun cases?” En masse, the table groans. Nines snorts softly.

“Reed, you bitch, do _not_ kill the vibe,” Tina says, jabbing a finger towards Gavin and Nines. “You’re off the bench! We’re _celebrating_! We should talk about happy shit. Right? Who’s got some happy shit?”

Hank, Conner, Gavin, Tina and Collins all look at each other. “Well,” says Connor, and the entire table angles towards him. With an earnestness that makes Gavin’s teeth hurt, Connor says “Yesterday was Sumo’s birthday. He turned seven years old.”

There’s a pause, and then laughter ripples across the table. Hank looks at Connor with undisguised softness in his eyes, and Tina raises her PBR with a sardonic “Mazel tov, kid.”

Gavin puts his head in his hands. “Fuckin’ unbelievable. Talkin’ about dogs. It’s like I’m drinking with a bunch of grade schoolers.”

“Asshole,” says Tina, smiling.

“You got cilantro in your teeth,” says Gavin.

Tina dives under the table, clawing at her mouth. “Asshole!”

“Well, happy birthday to Sumo. And thank you, everyone. It’s good to see you all,” Nines interjects smoothly, and every head at the table swivels toward him. “We’re looking forward to getting back to work.”

It’s always like that, Gavin thinks as everyone throws down their dregs, pulls on their coats. Long periods where Nines just watches and waits. He picks his opening, says his line, then clears out. Gavin wonders how long Nines rehearses everything in his head. A long time, probably. Nines always has a plan.

Connor pulls Nines into a quick embrace, and Gavin side-eyes them both as he finishes his bourbon. Nines pulls back first, eyes softening as he looks at Connor, his LED blinking rapid-fire blue. Connor grins as if they’re having a conversation. Which they are, of course. Fucking androids. Connor abruptly turns to Gavin, gives him a polite “Good night, detective Reed!”, then bounces off after Hank’s retreating shoulders.

Gavin snags Tina’s unfinished PBR, ignores her protests and waves her goodnight. He took it easy tonight, got a soft buzz going, nothing too crazy. They’ve got work in the morning, after all. Collins throws on a scarf that almost completely covers his face, stomps off with a bright “Night, boys!”, and then it’s just Gavin and Nines.

Nines is already standing, pulling on his jacket. “Shall we?” he asks, and Gavin just looks up at him for a moment. Takes in those broad shoulders, the hard set of his jaw.

“Shall we what, tin man? Shall we get cozy, drink ourselves stupid?” Gavin drawls. He raises up Tina’s freshly-empty glass, fixes Nines in a loopy grin. “You know I’m down.”

Nines gives him a dry look. “Well, I can’t drink, and you’re already stupid.”

Gavin heaves himself upright, pulls his heavy leather jacket around his shoulders. “Damn. Harsh.”

Nines gives him a half-smile.

They exit past the bar’s remaining patrons, Gavin gamely mouthing off to his friends and his enemies, Nines with his eyes fixed forward. The streets are slick with black ice, buildings coated in frost, and Gavin squints up past hazy streetlights into the orange-gray smog above. Gonna snow soon, he thinks.

“I’ll walk you to the subway,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Nines looks down at him in faint surprise.

“Really. Your apartment is in the opposite direction.”

Gavin snorts. “Yeah, whatever. Sometimes a guy wants to walk.” Nines looks at him doubtfully, but falls in step beside Gavin as he stomps towards the subway.

“What’s the point of this,” Nines says blandly.

“Dunno.” Gavin stares forward. “Dr. Yim rip you a new one?”

Nines smiles faintly. “No. I suppose I can assume my psychological evaluation went better than yours.”

“Eh, no eval for me this time. I just saw her for the Stedler thing, so she was like, get the fuck outta here, I’ll sign you off.”

Nines almost stops walking at that, his LED strobing yellow. “She’s… convinced of your... stability?”

“Nah, said she’s not dealing with me again. You know she’s supposed to retire pretty soon? Said she can’t risk, y’know--” Gavin makes an expressive churning motion, and the words are out before he can stop them-- “--throttling me with her bare hands.”

This earns him an intense, searching glance. Gavin’s stomach flips - Nines’ eyes are sharp as glass. They’re both remembering the same thing: they just won’t talk about it.

“Anyways,” Gavin says hurriedly. He does not look at Nines’ eyes or his hands or his mouth. “Must’ve been a real easy eval. Cut and dried, right?”

“Dr. Yim seemed to think so.”

Okay, Gavin thinks. He doesn’t wanna talk about Pugliesi. As he resolves not to push it, Gavin’s mouth continues of its own accord.

“I mean, it is what it is. Lotta cops, they get in a scenario like that, they get scared or they mad. Do what their gut says. Not you, though, right!” Gavin throws caution to the wind and lightly whacks Nines in the shoulder. “You had a plan and you stuck to it! Some by-the-book-shit.”

Nines looks at the place where Gavin touched him, then meets Gavin’s eyes. “Is there something we need to discuss?”

Gavin barks out a laugh. “Hah? No.”

“You seem concerned as to whether or not I reacted emotionally in the moment.”

Hands shoved deep into his pockets, Gavin huffs. “I mean, I’m - curious, is all.”

Nines stares straight ahead. “LIke you said. I considered optimal outcomes for mission success, and I acted accordingly.”

“You saw a little girl all cut up, and you saw this fucker with a knife, and that was fine? That was fine to you?" 

“Detective--”

“Fuck, okay, what about Stedler? Do you even care that he walked? Because I do,” Gavin bursts out, “I’m still - Christ, I’m still raw as _fuck_ about Stedler. I lose so much sleep over that piece of shit. What’s your deal with that?”

Charles Stedler: hotel mogul, killer of his own family, Gavin’s most cutting failure. All the hell he deserves and he gets _acquitted_ , because Gavin failed. Because he wasn’t thorough enough, because he didn’t work hard enough - their lead witness took Stedler’s hush money and the evidence was insufficient and Stedler walked. They don’t talk about Stedler either.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Gavin’s throat feels tight. There’s a low, churning feeling in his gut, somewhere between anger and exhaustion. “Yeah, I guess, I just,” Gavin mutters, “I’m like, if you don’t give a shit, why are you even a cop? What do you get out of this?”

Nines looks at him for a moment, LED spinning eggshell-yellow. Then he sighs, opens his mouth, and plays back a recording. “-- _should stick to what you’re good at_ ,” says the tape, clipped awkwardly at both ends and fuzzy with digital noise, and Gavin flinches because that’s _his voice_.

“Jesus Christ! Don’t _do_ that!”

“You were right,” Nines says. His voice is very soft. “That’s why I work with you.”

A self-driving cab whooshes by, sprays them with glittering flecks of snow. Gavin watches his boots for a few beats. “Well, that’s gotta be a first.”

“You being right? No, you’re correct more often than not,” says Nines.

“Oh,” says Gavin. “Well.”

Nines draws to a parade-rest halt, and Gavin skids on the ice to stop beside him. “This is my stop,” Nines says, cocking his head towards the neon sign that marks the entrance to the subway.

Gavin shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Fine.”

“Good night, Detective,” Nines calls over his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

Gavin limply raises a hand, lowers it again. Nines does not look back.

He watches Nines’ back disappear down the subway’s entrance stairs, and for a moment Gavin just stands there. A few androids are plugged into the subway’s free chargepoint, shoulders huddled inward. Two giggling teenagers skid past Gavin, pounding down the stairs with their hands clasped. A flash of movement catches Gavin’s eye - a gaunt arm raises from what he thought was a matted pile of waste. There’s a man crumpled in the corner of the subway entrance, twitching in his sleep.

Gavin breathes deep for a moment. He thinks about paperwork, and bitter black coffee, and the bed waiting in his drafty apartment. He thinks about Nines’ hands on the gun, still as death, and he thinks about the soft blue of the LED in the darkness. He thinks about one perfect gunshot.

Then he turns around and strides towards the DPD. 

* 

They’d fucked, of course.

Early in their partnership, one memorable screaming match had ended with Nines lifting Gavin completely off the floor, one fist around Gavin’s throat. The bruises didn’t fade for weeks.

Sometimes Gavin still dreams about that one. Nines, shaking with constrained fury, his eyes like ice, his grip inexorable and his body so close, God, he was so close. He filled up Gavin’s fading vision completely.

In that choked-out moment, his eyesight dimming and his body falling limp, Gavin realized that he would do anything, anything at all, to keep Nines’ eyes on his.

Nines had let Gavin down slowly, settled him onto the floor inch by torturous inch, and his eyes narrowed with dawning understanding. He moved a powerful thigh into the space between Gavin’s legs and pressed down _hard_ , hard enough that Gavin cried out. After that, a lot of things fell into place very quickly.

It wasn’t something they talked about. Gavin acted out and Nines threw him around, simple as that.

The real surprise was Nines’ persistence. Gavin had a lifetime of fury to unload on anyone who got in his way, and thus simply bulldozed through any situation that didn’t serve him. When in doubt, Gavin yelled and kept yelling. Even the strongest individual would eventually bow to a man that just didn’t stop screaming.

Nines, however, had that fucking android patience. Gavin could argue all he wanted, dump coffee on him, call him a soulless job-stealing piece of shit, sabotage Nines’ casework, do anything at all, and Nines would just fix him in that sharp, heavy gaze. He’d step into Gavin’s space, deliberate and slow, draw close enough that Gavin could hear the faint whirring under Nines’ skin, and Gavin would steel himself and Nines would lean down into Gavin’s ear and his breath was so warm and Nines would murmur - “Really, Detective?”

He’d bring a hand to Gavin’s neck, one thumb lightly tracing the hollow of his throat. Gavin would feel the iron circle of Nines’ grip as he swallowed. “Please. Be good for me,” Nines would say, so soft, and Gavin could spit or snarl all he wanted, and Nines would just hold his gaze. 

Eventually Gavin ran out of energy to insist that RK-900 was not alive. Then he ran out of conviction to argue that Nines was not a good cop, because objectively, he was. After that the tension didn’t disappear, but it had a different tang to it now. Nines jumping him in a restroom became less of a power move and more about - maintenance, maybe. Nines rewarded Gavin when he was easy to work with, and punished him when he wasn’t. Gavin left their little sessions with his head buzzing and pleasantly empty, the fear-anger-exhaustion in his gut uncurling with every exhale. Nines’ gaze became less cruel, more calculating. Nines knew how to take care of him, now. Nines knew how to make Gavin Reed do his job.

Of course, that was all ancient history. In the ultimate coup de grace, for some unknown reason that Gavin didn’t dare ask, Nines had backed off completely. He hadn’t touched Gavin in months.

This stung at first, but Gavin told himself not to take it personally. He’d treated Nines like shit, and in response Nines had outmaneuvered him so soundly, Gavin couldn’t even be mad about it. Nines had won their little war by _turning Gavin into a better detective_. Gavin’s case clearance rate was up, his coworkers seemed to be tolerating him, and Nines, of course, handled it all with a level of professionalism that Gavin couldn’t begin to fathom. That was the worst part of it, really. Nines had wrung out every fear and desire in Gavin’s shitty little brain, and now he just stood around and blandly bitched about overdue reports.

Life went on. They worked well together, now. Nines had taught Gavin how to work well. And wasn’t that the whole point?

Gavin couldn’t complain. Nines was done fucking him and that was that. 

* 

The DPD never really emptied out. Most cops went home, most androids wandered off to power down in a closet or whatever the hell they did, but you’d always catch a few stragglers in the bullpen. A few faces glance up at Gavin as he stomps through the doorway, but Gavin doesn't know any of these people personally, and no one calls out to him. Gavin’s grateful. He could never pull this off with any actual competent officers around.

First, Gavin goes to the break room and puts together the saddest-looking mug of coffee he’s ever seen. He does not take a sip: the coffee is ice-cold from sitting out all night, and anyway it isn’t for him.

Next, Gavin pads towards the end of the hallway. Silence greets him as he opens the door to the men’s locker room, unbroken except for a high fluorescent-lighting whine. Locker room means no cameras, so Gavin doesn’t bother looking subtle as he heads towards the personal lockers on the back wall. He stops at locker A-176, drawn by a small purple padlock and a messy Sharpie sign reading _A. Zaidner_. Zaidner was Narcotics, he got more pussy than anyone Gavin had ever met, and tonight he was going to help Gavin commit a felony.

Setting down his coffee mug on a nearby bench, Gavin produces a flat black switchblade from his jacket’s inside pocket. The blade flicks open with a satisfying _click_. He sets the knifetip into the padlock’s keyhole - who the fuck still uses tumbler locks, Zaidner oughta know better - and twists delicately until the padlock swiveled open. He paws through dirty gym clothes and criminal psychology books until finding his target: a half-empty box of condoms. Gavin selects a crisp silver three-pack and slips them into his jacket. Then he closes the locker, replaces the padlock, grabs his coffee and heads back to the bullpen.

After the revolution, a fair amount of DPD androids left their jobs. Well, technically a fair amount of them got sacked, because the department wasn’t paying them before and the department sure as hell couldn’t afford to pay them now. The others quit for political reasons, quit to go explore personhood, quit because the DPD’s human officers obviously didn’t want them around. Connor stayed for Hank, Nines got hired because he was fucking Supercop apparently, and nearly everybody else left.

One notable exception, however, was Sally.

Gavin stopped short just outside Sally’s office. FACILITIES MANAGER, reads the bronze plaque on the door. Sally’s light is on and inside, Gavin hears a keyboard clicking away. Gavin pauses for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob. From here on out, he could get into trouble. Not just another shouting match in Fowler’s office, not another disciplinary for the pile, real trouble. How many people risk their job on a hunch?

_You’re correct more often than not._

Gavin pushes open the door. 

Sally’s office is completely covered in small potted cacti. They occupy the desk, bookshelves, windowsill, computer monitor, and most of the floor. Beyond the cactus-free clearance of the door, a thin path allowed visitors access to a single folding chair, sitting square against Sally’s desk. Beyond that, the only non-cactus-holding floorspace was a sparse set of footsteps that Sally used to reach her own desk chair. Gavin asked Nines about it, once. It’s way too many fucking cacti, right, why’s she doing it? Nines had flatly replied, “Hobbies are a new concept to androids. We tend to go all-in.”

Sally looks up from her monitor. “Detective Reed!” she says, nonplussed. “Typically I prefer visitors to knock before entering my office.”

Gavin can’t help himself. “Hey, I was at the last facilities meeting. Weren’t you all, my door is always open?”

Sally frowns. “I believe that's a figure of speech.”

Gavin moves through the cacti, grabs the folding chair and spins it backwards before sitting down. “Alright. Fine. Can I get your help with something?”

Gavin figures that most people dislike androids for one simple reason: they know too much. When humans lie, androids know about it. Gavin, however, isn’t too fussed. Androids might know your physical tells, but they’re not fucking psychics. Just like humans, they fill in gaps with conjecture, and just like humans, they get freaked out by aggression. You can still lie to androids. You just have to be smart about it.

Sally straightens up in her seat. She’s a PM700, solid and friendly-looking, her bangs falling just above her eyes. “Of course, Detective. What’s the trouble?”

“Okay, so. I just saw Dr. Yim for an eval, you know, cause of that one case,” Gavin says. This is not a lie: he did see Dr. Yim two months ago. If Sally assumes Gavin is referencing the Pugliesi case, that’s not Gavin’s fault. “I just realized I left something in her office, and I wanna go get it before she gives me shit about it. You mind opening the door for me?”

Sally’s LED stays blue as she leans back in her chair, prim and superior. “This is highly unorthodox, Detective. I’m sure Dr. Yim won’t trouble you for a misplaced item. Assuming her scheduling remains consistent, Dr. Yim is available Monday through Thursday, from nine A.M. to--”

Gavin leans forward. “Sally, listen, I’m asking for a favor here.”

“You appear agitated, Detective,” Sally says curiously. “Your heart rate is elevated, and your pupils are--”

Go time. Gavin runs a hand roughly through his hair, huffs, crouches upwards and half-rises, crowding Sally's space. She doesn’t move. “Look, it’s embarrassing, okay? Yeah she’d let me get it, but I don’t want her to see it, cause I’m gonna catch hell. I am asking you to save me some pain, okay? Can you do that?”

“What is… embarrassing about this item?” Sally asks finally. Her LED’s spinning yellow.

“Fuck, okay, it’s--” Gavin leans forward and whispers nonsense in Sally’s direction.

“I’m sorry, Detective, would you mind repeating yourse-”

“CONDOMS, it’s condoms, alright?” Gavin shouts, slams Sally’s desk with an open palm, and Sally’s cacti jump on her desk. A tiny bush-looking-thing topples over, and Sally gives it a stricken glance. “Condoms fell outta my wallet and I want ‘em back! Can I go get my fucking rubbers without the third fucking degree? Jesus H. Christ!”

Sally leans back in alarm. “Detective Reed, please lower your vo--”

“Look, two minutes, in and out. You can stay with me the whole time. You gonna help me or what?”

Sally stares for a moment. Then she stands up and marches carefully around her desk, her sensible flats falling exactly within the footsteps she’s laid out. “Very well, Detective. Please remain calm.”

“Sure thing,” Gavin growls, and then, his heart rate dropping, “Thanks.” 

While Sally’s punching a ten-digit code into Dr. Yim’s doorknob, Gavin glances through the door’s narrow rectangular window, trying to see the darkened office beyond. His memory of Yim’s office is two months old, and once they’re in, he’ll only have a few seconds to get the layout down. The mug is slimy in his grip.

 _Beep!_ Sally wedges the door open and steps inside, gesturing for Gavin to follow. “Please be cognizant of Dr. Yim’s privacy as you search for your missing condoms,” Sally says solemnly, and Gavin snorts. Sally is going to tell the entire office, and Gavin is never going to live it down.

“Aight, thanks, guy,” Gavin says, and the motion-sensing lights flicker to life.

Dr. Yim’s office is bright and clean. Gavin doesn’t waste time looking at the tidy bookshelves, the Post-It notes scattered around the desk, the curly plant on the coffee table, or the modest couch wedged in the corner - he’s seen them before. Instead he draws a bead on Yim’s computer. It’s the department standard model - a nondescript monitor in sleep mode, a keyboard projected below it in soft yellow light. It’s also fitted with a very nonstandard mess of cords running upwards, coiling into a mesh wire rack filled with tiny metal cubes. Each cube represents several petabytes of department data and most importantly, psych evaluation recordings, unavailable online, accessible only right here in Dr. Yim’s office.

“I assume you sat on the client side for your psychological evaluation,” Sally drones. “I’ll check under the couch.”

“Fine,” Gavin says, and steps close to the desk. He drops to his knees, coffee splooshing faintly, and makes a show of rooting around. “God, she oughta clean in here more often, huh?” he mumbles. Glances upwards, lines up his shot.

“Detective, please repeat yourself,” Sally says, and Gavin breathes deep.

“You say somethin’?” Gavin hollers, shooting upright fast enough to make his knees creak, and coffee flies from his mug in a graceful arc. Liquid hits the monitor, keyboard, wires and wall with a _splat_. Gavin almost grins.

“Detective!” Sally cries, LED toxic yellow, and rushes over to the desk. “Please step away from the electronics!”

“Oh, fuck!” Gavin says brightly. “Aw, shit! Is it broken?”

“I don’t know,” Sally snaps. She bodily steps between Gavin and the computer, picks it up and gently shakes the coffee from its crevices.

“Shit, alright,” Gavin says sorrowfully. “Hang on, I’ll get a paper towel. I hope it still logs on and shit.”

Gavin steps outside to grab the single paper towel he’d previously stashed on top of the nearby water cooler. He takes a breath, feels for the condoms in his jacket pocket, counts to five. Time to get lucky.

He returns to find Sally logged into the computer, cautiously clicking through diagnostics. The monitor flickers sadly every few seconds.

“Aw, hey! You got it!” Gavin says, and this reaction is completely genuine. “Glad it works.”

Sally glares at him. “You brought _one_ paper towel?”

Gavin looks as innocent as possible. “Oh, shit, sorry. I guess I heard ‘go get a paper towel’, and I got - a paper towel.” Which of course is so in-character for Gavin, Sally would be a fool to question it.

The android sighs, starts up one final diagnostic. “Don’t touch anything,” Sally warns, and disappears through the doorway.

Gavin counts to five before before he leaps for the monitor. Thank fuck all the department computers use the same software - Gavin’s computer works exactly like this one, Sally’s position as facilities manager gives him access to the backups, and a few clicks take Gavin into the psych records. Nines had his eval on Tuesday, but Gavin doesn’t know exactly when, so he copies the entire day’s records, sends them to his personal email, then deletes the sent message.

Sally’s footsteps sound in the hallway. Gavin closes everything but the diagnostic before jumping away from the monitor and arranging himself in a vague cleaning position, which entails smearing coffee puddles around with his bare hands.

“Here,” Sally says, shoving a spray bottle and a rag at him. “I’ve already sent a maintenance request for the damaged monitor, but let’s do what we can.”

“Cool, cool,” Gavin says, heart thundering in his ears. He accepts the cleaning supplies, turns away from Sally, and as subtly as possible, chucks the condoms onto the floor. A gentle kick sends them under the desk, and Gavin reminds himself to breathe normally.

For a few minutes they wipe down the desk in silence. Sally whirs a lot louder than Nines does - older model, Gavin figures. Weird to be around an android that isn’t Nines.

Then Sally breaks the silence with a loud “Aha!” As Gavin flinches, Sally bends down to retrieve the condoms. “Mission accomplished,” she says.

Gavin gives her a crooked, unguarded grin. “Sure,” he says. “Mission accomplished.” 

* 

It’s nearing 4am. Dr. Yim’s office is as clean as possible, Sally’s filed an incident report and given Gavin a stern lecture, and Gavin has some research to do.

Before settling into his task, Gavin makes a new pot of coffee. Work starts in a couple hours anyway, might as well go all in. The bullpen’s nearly empty now, even the stragglers packing up for the night, and the first fingers of dawn visible through the windows. Gavin notices a young-looking officer asleep at their desk, face smooshed into a pile of paperwork, and that familiar heaviness settles down into Gavin’s gut.

Gavin grabs on his headphones and pulls up email on his phone. The videos are too small, the interface unwieldy on the phone’s tiny screen, but Gavin can’t risk looking at stolen records on DPD property. So he carefully taps through the videos, skipping through Dr. Yim’s first few appointments, until the scene changes and then he’s looking at Nines. 

“ _\--paired with the faults in your recording, it just doesn’t feel good, RK-900,_ ” Dr. Yim says kindly from behind the camera. “ _I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want you to know the reasoning behind these questions.”_

They’re in Dr. Yim’s office. Nines is perched on the edge of the couch, back ramrod-straight, his hands woven together on his lap. His LED spins blue and his expression is calm.

 _“Of course, Doctor,”_ he says in that friendly, edgeless tone he reserves for higher-ups and children. _“I’m happy to answer any of your questions.”_

 _“It’s very unusual for an android of your production quality to sustain memory corruption, isn’t it?”_ Dr. Yim asks.

Nines’ bland expression doesn’t change. _“Under ordinary circumstances, yes, it is unusual. However, my architecture was never designed to withstand emotional stress. Since undergoing deviancy, I’ve dealt with several similar minor errors. Jericho’s medics include a few specialists in post-deviancy systems evolution, and they’ve already addressed the problematic software. This error won’t happen again. Additionally, the missing visual data is represented in records from Detective Reed’s body camera. As I see it, the corrupted data has very little bearing on this case.”_

The speech is uncharacteristically mechanical. Despite the blue LED and his open posture, Gavin realizes Nines is being very, very careful.

 _“Well, you’re saying it happened because of high stress,”_ Dr. Yim says. _“This job doesn’t get less stressful, you know.”_

Nines half-smiles. _“I’m aware.”_

_“Tell me about the stress of the incident.”_

Nines shifts in his seat, spreads his legs a little wider, moves a hand to each knee. He’s trying to look vulnerable, Gavin thinks. Wide open, no secrets.

_“Upon breaching the suspect’s last known location, I entered through the kitchen, then encountered the body of Grace Alvarez. There was no time to fully analyze the scene, but it was apparent that Ms. Alvarez had suffered greatly before her death. Sensors indicated movement in the house’s basement. I had a sense of… urgency, upon seeing Ms. Alvarez’s body. I searched for the perpetrator without waiting for Detective Reed. Pugliesi didn’t show himself until Detective Reed entered from the basement staircase, at which time he moved toward Detective Reed with a serrated kitchen knife. Without time to further consider the situation, I took steps to contain Pugliesi.”_

_“So you were concerned for Reed’s safety.”_

_“Yes. Taking Pugliesi’s life was the only way to protect Detective Reed.”_

Bullshit, Gavin thinks. Bullshit! Pugliesi was meters away. Nines had time to figure other shit out - hell, he does that preconstruction thing, right, he probably ran thirty scenarios in those few seconds. No fucking way. Nine is flat-out lying.

_“So even with the corruption, you remember everything?”_

_“Yes,”_ Nines nods. _“The error primarily occurred in my visual records. My cognizance log remains unaffected.”_

_“Hmm. Would you be willing to submit that data to the record? I’ll bet the lab could reconstruct some visuals.”_

Pause. “I would prefer not to, Doctor,” Nines says evenly.

 _“Really,”_ says Dr. Yim. _“I’m surprised. Your colleague Connor Anderson puts cognizance logs into evidence all the time.”_

 _“I can’t speak to Detective Anderson’s choices,”_ Nines says. _“But with respect, if posited to a human officer, your request would be both unreasonable and unethical. Humans cannot and would not publicize a record of their thoughts. I’m happy to submit available audio and visual data into evidence. However.”_ Nines sounds like himself for the first time in this whole conversation. _“My mind is my own.”_

 _“I’m sorry, RK-900. That was thoughtless of me. I won’t ask you again.”_  


_“Thank you, ma’am.”_

There’s a beat of silence. Off-camera, Dr. Yim’s chair creaks.

 _“So in the moment,”_ she says thoughtfully, _“how did you feel?”_

_“The moment of shooting Anthony Pugliesi? I felt very little. I regretted taking his life, but it was the best of my limited options.”_

_“No, when you saw the little girl,” Dr. Yim says. _“And when you thought Gavin could get hurt.”__

__

_“I was concerned for Detective Reed. I was angry on behalf of Ms. Alvarez.”_

__

_“Angry and concerned, huh.”_

__

_“Yes.”_ Nines folds his hands back together. _“However. I’ve done everything in my power to assist them both. Detective Reed emerged unscathed, and Ms. Alvarez’s killer faced justice, even if that justice was suboptimal. Pugliesi should have stood trial. Even so, I don’t regret my actions. Given the same scenario, I would change very little.”_

__

__

__

Gavin hits pause. The video stops on Nines, frozen in a calm stare.

__

Two more videos sit in Nines’ file.

__

The first is Nines’ visual recording of the shooting. It’s first-person, strange and fluid with Nines’ movement, but the picture quality is shockingly good. Gavin watches through Nines’ eyes as he moves down the stairs, gun raised, and -- nothing. The video turns to a flickering black screen.

__

Gavin scrolls forward. A few seconds of usable video are peppered throughout the long blocks of darkness, but they’re shot through with random bursts of colorful static. From what Gavin can tell, Nines comes down the stairs, moves through the darkness, shoots Pugliesi. Fine.

__

The second video comes from Gavin’s body camera.

__

Vertigo settles in Gavin’s throat as he scrolls through the video, watches himself wander shakily through the house. He scrolls forward until he sees stairs. 

__

__

__

_“What the fuck", raps tinny video Gavin, “you prick, what the fuck. ‘Oh, secure the kitchen!’ Fuck you. I’m coming down the stairs, don’t shoot me.”_

__

_“Copy,” Nines says in Gavin’s earpiece._

__

_Video Gavin hustles down the stairs, gun raised. “DPD! Hands where I can see ‘em!” he roars, and there’s silence from the bottom of the staircase._

__

_“I SAID,” Video Gavin roars, wildly panning the flashlight through the darkness, “HANDS UP! DON’T MOVE! YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!”_

__

_The tiny circle of Nines’ LED comes into view. It’s a hard, bright red._

__

_One shot rings in the darkness._

__

__

__

Gavin peels his headphones off. His eyes sting for a moment, adjusting to the bullpen’s fluorescents after all this dimly-lit video. Gavin rubs his eyes hard, breathes deep for a moment. Then he deletes the video. He deletes the email too, disconnects his phone’s automatic backup, then restores it back to factory settings.

__

Nines lied. Nines falsified the body camera footage, Nines edited his visual records, Nines lied in official testimony. Nines killed Pugliesi and he didn't do it for Gavin. Nines is lying to everybody.

__


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin plays nice. Nines follows his gut. 
> 
> (Psst there's sexual content in this one! Near the end, if you're sensitive to that stuff. OK thanks for reading, I love you bye!!)

Once upon a time, Gavin went to therapy. It was just a few sessions, and Gavin spent the whole time determinedly complaining about the Knicks, but his therapist did manage to sneak in one salient point. She told him about self-care, which, as Gavin understood it, meant doing a thing that made you feel better. 

As a result, Gavin hadn’t taken his phone off “silent” mode in about seven years. The therapist was right: never answering calls really did make him feel better. If it was important they’d call the bullpen, or else they’d call somebody who actually answered their phone. 

Plus, the only personal calls he ever got were from an ever-rotating cast of bail bondsmen trying to find his sister. Great news, Libby Reed just won a datapad! Just send me her forwarding address and we’ll get it right to her. This is Libby’s boss, I need to forward her last paycheck, where’s she at these days? Sad, really. Good fuckin’ luck to anyone who bothered chasing Libby Reed. 

“You’d think they’d give up at some point,” Gavin grumbles, punching delete on his last three voicemails. 

It’s a clear, golden afternoon in the bullpen. Sunlight reflects off the freshly-fallen snow outside, and skidding tires occasionally sound from the streets below. The whole town’s emptied out for the weather, plus Fridays tend to clear out the weak of heart, so the floor’s almost empty. 

Nines glances up from the desk beside Gavin’s. “Another bounty hunter?” 

“Yeah. This one was like--” Gavin scrunches up his face-- “ _ ‘-blah blah, I’m Libby’s ex-roommate, she left behind a nice pair of earrings, she wanna meet up _ ?’” Gavin sighs, throws down the last of his iced coffee. “Cause Libby’s gonna risk jail over a pair of earrings. Right.” 

Nines slides a stack of paperwork towards Gavin, who slaps it on his careening to-do pile without looking. It’s cleaning day: time to re-check the accumulated reports, requisitions, overtime logs and booked evidence from all open cases over a year old. Gavin reserves half of his work-week for cold cases, and ever since he’d become Gavin’s partner, Nines has followed suit. 

“The bounty hunters are unlikely to stop calling,” Nines says blandly. “It is their job.”

“Yeah, asshole, I’m aware,” Gavin grumbles, flicking through a coffee-stained witness statement. Fuck, he was so glad the department had gone digital. Someday he’d clear every single cold case on the books, and then he’d never have to wrangle a two-hundred-page handwritten case file again. 

“Dumbass move on her part,” Gavin continues distractedly. “Shoulda just taken the hit, served her time. Gotta be less hassle than going on the lam.” 

Nines smoothes out a crumpled page of notes with one careful hand. Gavin recognizes the case from the handwriting alone: Naira Petrossyan, part-time laundromat employee, found strangled right outside her own apartment. No witnesses, no motive, no surviving family. She was 56 years old. “Well,” Nines says. “If it’s been this long, I imagine your sister’s made some amount of peace with the situation.” 

Gavin stares at him, the old fury rising in his chest. “Fuck do you know about it?” 

Nines continues in that sedate tone. “Most bail-jumping class-C felons return to prison within two months. If she isn’t incarcerated and she hasn’t died, Ms. Reed must have some degree of control over her situation. In any case,” - Nines neatly stacks Naira’s paperwork - “some enjoy the chase.” 

“Hah,” Gavin says. “Don’t talk about my fucking sister.” 

Nines looks at him sideways, shrugs. “She is alive, correct?” 

Which is infuriating, because Nines already knows Libby’s alive. She leaves Gavin a voicemail every couple years, sounding peppy and blackout drunk, and that’s fine. Fucking Robocop can presumably read it all over Gavin’s face, so he’s not actually asking. For some reason he just wants to hear Gavin say it. 

Gavin leans back in his office chair, pulls into a burning overhead arm-stretch. “Again,” he drawls, back popping, “don’t talk about my  _ fucking  _ sister. How’s Naira looking?” 

Nines shakes his head. “I’ve tested the sample kit again. We have a 60% match for the killer, but it’s from an unlabeled Armenian colon cancer sample--” his LED blinks yellow - “--from the year 2008.” 

“Haaugh.” Gavin runs a hand through his hair. “Immigrant’s kid, I guess. What’s the Armenian population here?” 

Nines’ LED spins gold once again. “There are nineteen thousand documented citizens in the greater metr-” 

“Fine, fine.” Gavin waves an arm. “Put it in the file.” Nines nods and turns back to his desk. 

Handwritten witness statements, illegible evidence logs, criminal database printouts, reports from specialized officers and civilian experts, surveillance tapes on archaic hard drives - Gavin hasn’t seen the top of his own desk in years. It’s all so infuriatingly  _ available _ , right, all tactile and spread out in front of him, ready to be held and examined and laid out and  _ fixed,  _ and some days that’s the only reason Gavin gets out of bed. There are always more details: always more signal in the noise. Somebody always missed something, you just gotta get up close, and nobody gets up closer than Gavin Reed. Most officers can’t handle the monotony of cold cases: Gavin can’t imagine life without ‘em. Can’t imagine life without Naira. 

Gavin is standing before he stops to think about it, pulling his heavy jacket from the back of his chair in one swing. Nines blinks. 

“You’re done for the day?” 

“Nah. Might as well check Naira’s block again.” 

Nines stands, smoothly tracing behind Gavin as he stomps towards the exit. “You could at least invite me.” 

“Do what you want,” Gavin says, not looking behind him. “Prob’ly a waste of time.” 

Nines catches up with him effortlessly. “Please. You need all the help you can get.” Gavin snorts. 

The snow is almost blinding as Gavin pushes through the DPD’s entrance, out into the golden afternoon. Ice crunches under his boots, and Nines moves steady and quiet at Gavin’s side. Sixteen hours since Gavin saw the psych eval. Gavin hasn’t said a word. 

 

***

 

Gavin hadn’t enjoyed growing up in the projects and he didn’t enjoy visiting them now, but there was a certain amount of satisfaction in the trek through Shoetown. Maybe it wasn’t satisfaction, actually. Maybe it was just the relief of knowing what to expect. 

Power lines cut dark strands against the brilliant sky above. The projects loom overhead in brightly-colored, angular concrete, stunningly foreign against crumbling industrial landscape that surround them. Some architect had won the right to design the projects, some futuristic award-winner guy, Gavin didn’t know, and everyone in Detroit agreed that they looked like shit.

Scattered figures trudge through the snow, backs braced against the wind. Music sounds faintly from somewhere overhead, all scratchy blown-out bass and jittering percussion, mixing into the low laughter of the men sharing cigarettes by the bodega. The streets still shone with black ice, so thick that no cars maneuvered through the battered block - not that anyone would take a car here. Shoetown didn’t do well with cars. 

Every so often, movement flashes in some darkened window, too fast to track. Gavin fixes his collar. 

“You’re walking differently,” says Nines flatly. 

“What.” 

“More—“ Nines gestures vaguely. “-- hip movement.” 

Gavin snorts. Nines looks ridiculous out here, he thinks. Like a Gucci ad in a chop shop. “You spend a lot of time thinking about my hips?” 

“I mostly think about whether or not your insecure posturing is going to jeopardize our job.” 

The tone is severe, but Gavin’s come to realize that Nines doesn’t typically smile with his mouth. He smiles with his eyes. And he’s smiling now, which is so surprising and so welcome that Gavin immediately hikes up his jeans and gives his best cowboy strut. 

“So if insecure is the hood walk, what’s this, huh?” he drawls. Sticks his feet all pigeon-toed, rolls his hips. “Job jeopardized now, bitch?” 

He’s rewarded with a burst of startled laughter, as if he’s shocked it right out of Nines. Gavin glances over just in time to catch an unfamiliar look on Nines’ face. Openness, maybe. Maybe even warmth. 

“Please,” Nines chuckles, “keep walking like that.” 

“Yah, please do,” says a rumbling voice, far too close to Gavin’s left, and Gavin about shits himself. He whips around to find a heavyset middle-aged man inches away, peering at him under a thick hat and a furrowed brow. 

“Christ, Peter!” Gavin yelps, skipping away, skittering on the ice. Nines stills, body angled defensively, his expression tight once again. “Fuckin’ - personal space.” 

Peter works his jaw, eyes flicking over Nines before settling back on Gavin. “I thought we had understanding, Reed.” 

Gavin groans. “Fuckin’ relax, there’s no warrant, I’m just--” 

“What is this?” Peter points accusingly at Nines with one leather-gloved hand. Nines regards him without blinking. “I don’t want you here and I don’t want  _ this _ walking around, and--” 

Nines extends a hand towards Peter, jaw tense, eyes sharp. “DPD, homicide department.” 

Peter looks at Nines’ hand as if it’s smeared with shit. “Warrant.” 

“No warrant, holy fuck! Just canvassing for a cold case, Jesus. Nines, c’mon,” Gavin snaps. He smacks Nines’ outstretched hand and immediately regrets it: Gavin’s hand gives a hard  _ crack  _ on impact. 

“FUCK,” Gavin squawks. Nines looks briefly at Gavin, his eyes smiling.  

Peter glances between them, eyebrow raised. “What are you looking for.” 

Flexing his hand experimentally, Gavin grimaces. “Checkin’ out the Whitney building.” 

“Petrossyan again?” 

Stings like crazy, but nothing seems broken. Gavin huffs, nods without looking. 

Peter growls as he strides forward, surprisingly light on his feet, and Gavin hustles to follow him through the ice. “Listen, it’s our building but that means nothing. I’ve  _ told _ you Mirozyan is not involved.” 

Nines’ LED spins. Accessing the casefile, Gavin guesses - these names are nothing new. Peter’s employer, Mirozyan, operates the largest crime syndicate in Shoetown out of the Whitney building. Of course Mirozyan’s people were the first suspects.

“Sure, Peter. I got full confidence in you crazy kids,” Gavin drawls. “You got any better ideas for us?” 

“No! Why would I know the killer!” 

The dense city blocks widen until they reach the base of a vast concrete courtyard. The grounds are littered with graffitied futuristic - benches? Sculptures? - Gavin has no idea - and the pavement shines with industrial-approved paintings in stark yellow. Trains of dancers, Gavin guesses. That or chain gangs. 

The Whitney towers overhead, stark concrete against the marbled sky above. It’s an odd shape, like some kind of bent upside-down cross, and rectangular cutout windows mar the sheet concrete at seemingly random intervals. A flash of red in the wind - someone’s laundry flapping from a window. 

“Interesting,” says Nines, neck craned upwards. 

Gavin snorts. “Fuckin’ award-winning. Christ.” Beside him. Peter grunts in agreement. 

The teenagers clustered around the Whitney’s entrance look up en masse as Gavin, Nines and Peter approach. Their stares are hard and unafraid. “Not that I don’t appreciate the company,” Gavin grumbles, watching his boots skid on the ice, “but are you gonna follow us the whole way up?” 

Peter squints at the teenagers, who immediately look away en masse. “Yes.” 

Nines glances sideways at Peter. “This is a police investigation.” 

“No warrant?” Peter says heavily, “No dice. I walk in my own goddammned building.” 

“Leave ‘em be,” Gavin grunts, shouldering past Peter to take the lead. “Don’t mean no harm. Nines, fuckin’ come  _ on _ .” He grabs Nines by the shoulder, pulling him away from a pair of elevator doors permanently bent open, allowing a clear view into a cavernous elevator shaft. Nines moves with Gavin’s grip, but peers backwards over his own shoulder as Gavin and Peter troop up the stairs. 

“Why is the elevator broken?” 

“I mean, it barely worked when it worked.” Gavin glares back at a glowering twelve-year-old coming down the stairs, avoids eye contact with his veiled mother. “Funding cuts. Couple years gone now, right Peter?” Peter, panting a few steps behind Gavin, says nothing. “Aight then.” 

They’re steadily climbing upwards, both Gavin and Peter panting louder and louder, but the rate of Nines’ simulated breathing doesn’t change. “So this building has fifteen floors, and there’s no elevator,” says Nines. 

CyberLife shoulda fixed the breathing thing, Gavin thinks. He sounds like a recording. “You asking or telling?” 

Nines doesn’t respond. The last flights of stairs pass in silence. 

 

*

 

“Alright!” Gavin gasps, hauling himself into the eighth floor doorway like a dying man diving into water. “Alright alright. Whew!” 

Peter sinks against the wall next to Gavin. His chest heaves, hair frizzing and neck slick with sweat, and Gavin realizes that he has more in common with this aging Armenian mobster than he does with his own partner. “Hah,” Peter heaves. “Thank  _ God _ she did not live any higher than this.” 

“Oh, speaking of living,” Gavin pants. He forces himself upright, cursing his fucking rabbit-fast heart. Breathing deep for a moment, he catches Nines watching him, head slightly cocked. Scanning him, probably, the bastard. Cataloguing Gavin’s oh-so-human weaknesses. Appallingly, Nines isn’t winded at all. 

Gavin points to a spot on the battered floorboards. “That’s where she died.” 

Nines and Peter’s heads swivel in a single gratifying motion. The spot itself is - nothing. Just more faded faux-wood veneer, same as the rest of the hallway, right in front of a doorway labeled 801. 

Nines squats down. As he carefully maneuvers onto his knees, Gavin realizes what’s about to happen and grabs Peter’s arm to swing him in the opposite direction. “So, you’re absolutely sure your people don’t know about this.” 

“Reed, for the _last time,_ ” Peter hisses. “We don’t _kill_ _old women_.” 

Ordinarily, Gavin might shrink away from that glare. Right now he’s just happy that Peter isn’t watching Nines lick the floor. “Yeah, how about witnesses though?” he continues evenly. “Old women still got eyes and ears.” 

Peter spits out a laugh. “Not like she heard much anyway. That woman,” - he points at the doorway for emphasis - “played her fucking music every waking hour.” 

“Yeah?” Gavin asks, interested. “You knew her?” 

“Of course I know her. Whole building knows. When she is in, music. When she is out, no music.” The anger leaves Peter’s face for just a moment. “Good woman. Had a strong laugh.” 

Nines straightens into view behind Peter, carefully brushing off his jacket, and Gavin relaxes. “Strong laugh, huh. She sounds cool.” 

As Peter visibly closes off once again, Nines moves between them. “I’d like to assess the apartment. It’s been years, of course. New residents are registered to this property. No evidence will likely remain. However,” Nines says, with that hard look in his eyes, “I’d still like to see it.” 

Gavin nods. “Knock yourself out.” 

Nines raps sharply on the faded doorframe. Peter shifts in the silence, and Nines’ head tilts towards the cracks in the door. No sign of movement from apartment 801. 

Gavin sighs. “Nobody home?” 

One clipped nod from Nines. 

Groaning, Gavin thunks backwards into the wall. “Well, I’m SO glad we climbed a million fucking flights of stairs to  _ not  _ see the apartment.” 

“We could climb one more,” Peter says. 

“Eh?” 

Peter points upwards. “Ninth-floor first-apartment? Empty right now. Same layout.” 

 

*

 

901 isn’t memorable. It blurs into every other apartment Gavin’s ever lived in, too familiar to see clearly. One step through the doorway and Gavin tastes his own expectations - leaking fridge, tight hallways, lights that flicker. Clouds of mildew in the bathroom, one sharp dent in the bedroom wall. 

“Gonna step outside for a bit,” he grunts, and does not wait to hear Nines’ response. The hallway asks nothing of him, and he’s grateful for solid concrete against his back, worn wood under his feet. It’s warmer up here, at least. For a moment he’s so comfortable he doesn’t even notice the guy goggling at him from the doorway of 902. 

“You movin’ in?” the guy croaks in a voice like the Devil. 

Gavin jumps a mile for the second time today. “Shit!” he hollers. “Hell of a tenor you got, Christ.” 

“What?” 

“Hell of a--” Gavin waves irritably. “Never mind. You live here?” 

“Eight years,” the guy mumbles. 

“Yeah?” Gavin angles himself towards the guy, pulls his hands out of his pockets. “What’s it like around here? Livin’ the quiet life?” 

“Shit naw. Who’s askin.” 

“Gavin. Who’re you?” 

Pause. The guy looks thoughtful for a second. “Duane.” 

“Okay, Duane,” Gavin says, shifting from foot to foot, “how’s life in the Whitney?” 

“Eh,” says Duane. He leans out of his doorway, revealing the tower of junk behind him - DVD cases, cardboard boxes, discarded nitrile gloves, paperwork, tangled electronics, a Pez dispenser. “Same as anywhere else, I guess. Folks always runnin’ around, howlin’ in the middle of the night.” 

“Ahah, sure. At my place it’s triplets. Fuckers never shut up,” Gavin lies easily. His place is dead quiet, but years of interrogation taught Gavin that leading information yields more answers than outright questions. 

“Kids don’t bother me none, they don’t know better,” Duane says, a little tightly. “Old folks got no excuse. Like don’t you know youse bein’ rude?” 

“Sure,” Gavin nods, just as Nines and Peter emerge from 901. Nines’ eyes snap onto Duane like a clip locking into a magazine. 

“Are you ready to leave, Gavin?” Nines asks evenly. 

The breath catches in Gavin’s throat as he glances between Duane and Nines. Oddly, Duane’s all locked up - eyes wide, posture tight. Nines’ LED spins gold. 

“Hey, been nice talkin’ to you,” Gavin says, striding forward to block Duane’s view of Nines, hand proffered. “Hope it stays quiet up here.” 

“Right,” Duane says. Dry hands, weak grip, arm scattered with track marks. He doesn’t look Gavin in the eye. Gavin cranes his neck as Duane turns to leave, then 902’s battered door swings shut in Gavin’s face. 

“Good talk?” Peter asks mockingly. 

“Yeah, Pete, I loved it,” Gavin says vaguely. Nines still spins yellow, neck craned towards 902. “Let’s get out of here.” 

 

*

 

“So. A detective in the arms of the mob,” Nines says lightly. “I must say I’m surprised.” 

“Come off it, would you?” Gavin hisses through a mouth full of kielbasa. “ _ In the arms of the mob,  _ Christ! Make me sound like I’m swooning for that fucker.” 

“You’re comfortable with him. That’s surprising on both personal and professional levels,” Nines shrugs. Wedged into a grimy diner booth, right below a blinking neon sign of a cartoon sausage, he looks completely absurd. 

“Pete is,” Gavin says, and thinks about it. “Pete is a guy I know.” 

“Incontrovertibly true.” 

“Again with the Scrabble words. Christ.” 

“Peter Boghossain has been implicated in no less than three homicides.” 

“Yeah, that you know of,” Gavin grumbles, and raises his hand, makes a vague “check” motion in midair. “He was a bigwig in my old neighborhood. Some of my friends worked for him, I’d see him around, that’s all.” 

“So you’re not --” 

“On the take? Fuck no.” Gavin’s done a lot of things wrong in his life. Accepting mob money is not one of them. “You can know somebody and not support what they do. Happens all the time.” 

Nines cocks his head. “Even putting Boshassain’s own actions aside, his associates are avowed criminals. They cause harm on the same level as, say, Charles Stedler.” Gavin barely manages to clench down on a flinch. “Some say that continued association counts as tacit support. You are an officer of the law, and you still associate with this man. The contradiction doesn’t bother you?” 

Face flushing red, Gavin works his hands together in his lap. “First of all, low fucking blow about Stedler.” 

Nines sounds curious, tranquil. “Why? Because Boghassain is palatable, and Stedler is not?” 

“Oh, please,” Gavin scoffs, and then realizes he has no idea how to end that sentence. Nines locks him in unblinking eye contact as the server wanders over, hands Gavin a receipt. There’s a beat of quiet as money changes hands, as the chair squeaks while Nines leans back in the booth. 

The server meanders away, and Gavin mournfully surveys the last of his kielbasa. “No leads from the facsimile of Naira’s apartment,” Nines says, still watching Gavin with that inhuman focus. “According to Boghassain, the critical Mirozyan operations are floors away from her apartment. There’s the odd chance she overheard something from the hallway, but Boghassain insists he would’ve heard of such an incident.” 

“Yeah, he would’ve. How’d the floor taste?” 

“No apparent relevant data.” 

Gavin leans back in his seat. “Yeah, how’d it taste though.” 

Nines frowns. “It was… fine.” 

“Yeah?” asks Gavin, smiling. “Mr. Scrabble-dictionary-brain says the floor tastes fine. Okay.” 

“I don’t know why my lack of descriptive prowess is so funny to you,” Nines protests, cut off mid-sentence by Gavin’s thick laugh. “Artistic efforts are beyond my function, and I see no need to--” 

“Fuck, don’t worry about it! You’re great,” Gavin chuckles. “Alright. C’mon, back to Naira.” 

Nines’ jaw tightens. “My only new takeaway regarding Ms. Petrossyan’s case is--” 

“The guy in the hallway, right,” Gavin finishes almost thoughtlessly, and Nines gives him an odd look. 

“Yes. He reacted strongly to our presence.” Beat. Nines works his jaw again. “Mine in particular.” 

“He didn’t know I was a cop, but he definitely knew about you.” Nines only had one fault as an officer of the law: he always, always looked like a cop. On the clock, off the clock, undercover or in riot gear, it made no difference: Nines was clearly, painfully, eternally a cop. 

“Hm. I believed it was anti-android bias.” Nines’ expression is carefully blank. Come to think of it, Gavin didn’t see a single android in the whole of Shoetown. 

“Oh, right!” Gavin snaps his fingers. “He had an arm in his apartment.” 

“ _ What? _ ” 

“Android arm. I mean, like.” Gavin waves vaguely, “A detached android arm. Saw it in his doorway.” 

Nines’ LED spins yellow. “Describe it to me.” 

“Uhh? Looked old. Wires poking out the end and shit, not like the whole -- blue deal.” 

“Did it have any dermal covering? Any identifying marks?” 

“No skin, just metallic-y stuff. I didn’t see it very long.” It’s hard not to grimace. If Nines had seen it, they’d have it on hi-def video for all eternity. 

“Hmm.” Nines’s expression is cold. “Did you see any other parts?” When Gavin shakes his head, Nines clicks his jaw. “Not enough for a warrant.” 

“I mean, his place was full of junk,” Gavin says doubtfully. “Seemed like a hoarder type. No laws against owning individual android parts.” 

“Yes,” Nines says blankly. His posture straightens out, and then, “--yes.” 

The server hovers nearby, fixing Gavin with a mournful look. It’s dark outside, shot through with strobes of brightness from passing cars. Cold seeps in through the diner’s cracked windows. 

Gavin sighs, stands up. “Alright, you done? We can wrap up the notes tomorrow.” 

“Certainly,” Nines says, the tightness in his voice undercut with a sound almost like - exhaustion. “I’d also like to discuss--” 

A discordant ringtone crackles in the quiet. Gavin feels for his pocket, frowns at his phone. “What,” he says, and a chipper-sounding woman’s voice comes ringing through the static. 

_ “Hello, Gavin! Welcome to your daily news report. Today’s subject is the environment!” _ The voice slides into a pleasant monotone. “ _ Today in Malaysia, a delegation of international climate change experts agreed on updates to the 2026 Kuching Accords. These updates include new standards for Thirium production emission caps, and handling standards for 116 newly-developed plasticine compounds specific to android production. Today in South Africa, a rare species of woodpecker--”  _

“What the fuck,” says Gavin. 

Nines twists out of the booth, standing at attention to give Gavin a smug look. “Oh, that’s on my account.” 

Gavin almost drops his phone. “Hah?” 

“I thought you’d appreciate a break from the usual bounty hunter calls,” Nines said cheerfully. “So I signed you up for a phone service aimed at the elderly and vision-impaired. They’ll call daily with updates on current events. Sundays are for space facts, I believe.” 

“What the fuck,” Gavin repeats helplessly. Nines’ eyes are alive with mirth, and Gavin is about to say something clever or funny or  _ something, anything,  _ when Nines’ LED blinks red and his mouth tightens and he turns away, receiving some kind of message internally, and Gavin watches the moment slide away. 

“Yes,” Nines says to no one. “Understood. We’ll be on scene within four minutes.” 

 

*

 

The club’s exterior is shiny neon pink, almost too bright to look at.  _ Iridescence,  _ the sign reads, and the letters glint with some kind of holographic effect. Nines squints at the sign with apparent confusion, and when Gavin asks what’s up, Nines shakes his head. “It’s built for android sensors,” he says quietly. “You’re seeing something different than me.” 

The interior doesn’t look like much to Gavin - matte black walls, stained flooring, bland gray couches and a somewhat haphazard-looking bar against the leftmost wall. Perfume mixes with the scent of industrial chemicals, all underlaid by a sharp tang of Thirium. The witness pen is a teeming mass of agitated androids, all dressed to the nines. Gavin spots designer shoes, thousand-dollar jackets, chassis modified with dermal lowlighting and custom frames and even hard-light bodies, all that fancy club scene shit -- all completely incongruous against the cramped, dirty interior. Everybody looks scared. 

Tense cops center around a taped-off mass near the center of the room, filled with crumpled bodies and spattered Thirium blue. Nines slows, taking in the scene, and Gavin beelines towards a familiar silhouette. 

“Hiya, Chen,” he says brightly. “How’s tricks?” 

Chen turns towards him with grim-set lips. “Oh, you know,” she says flatly. “The usual.” 

“What happened?”

“Triple homicide. Jealous ex showed up, murdered the boyfriend’s new polycule. I just gotta say,” Chen says, leaning back onto the bar, massaging her temple, “Fuck this.” 

Gavin nods. “What happened to the perp?” 

“Gone. Ran out the back like a bat outta hell - Zhong and Betsy are on it. Hope they shoot the fucker,” Chen says blandly, and then points to the back of the club. “We’ve got the main action handled, but nobody’s gone through back-of-house yet. Get any witnesses to the pen, check the exits, look for weird shit, blah blah.” 

“Yessir,” Gavin says, giving a sloppy salute, and Chen snorts as he turns away. Nines hasn’t moved from his position near the entrance, still peering into seemingly empty space, and Gavin jogs to his side. 

“Hey, c’mon,” Gavin hisses, and Nines startles, peers down at him with narrowed blue eyes. “They want us out back.” 

“Yes,” Nines says vaguely, and follows Gavin like a dog at heel. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Gavin growls once they’ve cleared a gamut of determined forensic techs. “You’re all--” Gavin waves a wide circle at his own head. “Whatever you are.”

“If you could see what I’m seeing,” Nines says softly, “you’d be like this too.” 

Gavin pulls on a pair of gloves he’d nabbed from a forensic tech, strides towards the back of the club. “Okay, head in the game, got it? You take right, I’ll take left.” 

They trace through the club in silence for a while, Nines still and focused at Gavin’s side. Occasionally Nines reaches out to touch a doorknob or a stain, bringing his fingers to his lips. Gavin doesn’t watch him, and Nines doesn’t speak. 

They move through the hallways, the employee bathrooms, the loading dock. As Gavin points a couple of android employees towards the witness pen for processing, Nines twists as if on a swivel, heads to the left. 

“Hey, hold up!” Gavin hollers, gives a frustrated gesture to the employees, then jogs after Nines. The back of the club is even grimier than the front, walls the texture of popcorn and crumpled carpet underfoot, and Gavin, scraping through a tight hallway, grimaces as thick pads of dust catch on his leather coat. 

“Here,” says Nines from somewhere up ahead, and Gavin skids towards the sound to find Nines motionless in front of an open door. Nines’ silhouette is hard-edged and still against the darkness of a cavernous stockroom, his LED shining gold. 

“Someone moved through here recently. Not an employee. The signal’s -- wrong.” 

“What do you mean, signal?” Gavin asks, and Nines shakes his head. 

“The club’s broadcasting modifiers for sensory input. I’m seeing signal and physical stimuli simultaneously. It’s --” Nines actually steps back, actually leans against the battered drywall and presses a hand against it hard -- “it’s hard to explain.” 

“Wait, none of the cop androids out there seemed -- weird,” Gavin says, spine prickling. 

Nines is still staring off into the middle distance. “I’m more sensitive than most,” he says, making Gavin bite down a reflexive snort, and then Nines turns and heads into the stockroom. 

The flashlight clips onto Gavin’s Glock in one easy slide. Nines doesn’t go for his sidearm, but his movements are measured and wary. Together they move through the dusty cardboard boxes, careful step by careful step, and Gavin’s heart pounds. 

“So what is signal, exactly?” Gavin asks conversationally, as if he isn’t prepared to shoot to kill, and Nines frowns. 

“When a human is conscious, their sensory organs send sensations to the mind for processing.” Nines carefully steps around a rusty dough mixer, points Gavin towards a side path through the maze of boxes. Gavin nods, heads forward. “It’s the same for androids, but every part of the observation process is recorded and processed, not just the final processed records. Hm. That isn’t very clear.” 

“No, wait,” Gavin says, “so you’re - seeing yourself seeing?” 

“Yes. The club is broadcasting a passive sensory editor,” Nines says quietly, coming to a halt next to a dusty old-fashioned TV monitor. Gavin pauses too, gun tilted at his feet. “I’m seeing myself seeing, yes. But it’s distorted. I see the world as I assume it is.” 

Gavin’s hands are slick on the gun. “What.” 

“I see, I process what I’m seeing, then the sensory editor makes me see what I  _ think  _ I’m seeing. That on top of the visual editors that make up the club’s decor -” Nines glances around, reacting to something Gavin can’t experience, and sighs. “My experience of this location is - unique. Personalized.” 

“So you’re, like, useless right now, is what I’m hearing.” Nines’ eyes narrow. “And why would anybody want that?” Gavin asks, rolling his shoulder and nearly knocking into a nearby shelf. “Whole thing sounds confusing.” 

“Let me see if I can--” Nines steps around to the side of the dusty TV monitor, traces its cord down to a nearby power outlet. As Gavin awkwardly maneuvers around the shelf and its pile of dusty paperwork, shifting towards a row of dusty industrial refrigerators, Nines slides a hand down the TV’s side panel and closes his eyes. For a moment all Gavin hears is muffled conversation from the crime scene outside, the slow shift of cardboard around them. The soft sound of Nines’ synthetic breath, steady as gravity. 

The TV flickers to life in a blaze of gold. At first all Gavin can see is blazing shards of light, and then the picture settles into interlocking blocks of gold. For a moment the scene is completely foreign, just slashes of color and darkness, and then Nines turns away from the TV and the shapes on-screen follow his movement, and Gavin’s stomach turns as he realizes that he’s literally seeing through Nines’ eyes. 

The random patches of gold become shelves careening at strange angles, boxes wedged into spirals of dust, air pressure and moisture patterning and dozens of forensic projections overlaid in shimmering layers of sharp cyan. Every object in the stockroom is represented in soft offwhite polygons, their textures clear and inviting, and as Nines focuses on individual objects, the screen shimmers with blossoms of swirling data and code. Everything is soft and hard at once, somehow blooming with warmth. As Nines slowly tilts his head upwards, the crumbling ceiling overhead becomes a canopy of warm light. This is the club’s true decor - whiteness and spirals, texture and code. 

It’s a dizzying amount of visual information, far too much, and Gavin exhales hard. Nines’ eyes flicker towards him, and Gavin’s stomach drops, and he sees himself. 

This Gavin is rendered in rich color, in hard lovely shapes, in a trail of preconstructions vibrating at his edges like the blurred edges of a dancer in motion. Through the blur of cascading color and data, Gavin’s heavy posture looks almost feral, almost regal. Slashes of light trace his edges, mark his hands, his eyes, the hollow of his throat. Code glints over him in waves of soft gold. Like - glitter, almost. Like this Gavin blurs and burns and shines with his every choice, his every motion. Like this Gavin is beautiful. 

“Uh,” Gavin says, like an idiot, and Nines flinches, and the screen goes black. 

Several things happen in quick succession. 

The refrigerator nearest Gavin bursts open, door crashing into the shelf right beside it. The shelf topples forward. For one breathless instant, Gavin watches as boxes and paperwork and random cooking shit careens down in a perfect path towards his skull. An indistinct blur of limbs explode from the fridge and sprint for the door, trailing Thirium blue. Gavin hears a  _ crack  _ from Nines’ location - possibly a gunshot, but Gavin can’t be sure, because at that instant the entire shelf crashes on top of him. The world goes dark. 

Gavin wakes up to a low keening sound, which turns out to be Gavin himself, moaning in pain. “Owwww,” he mumbles, and flinches as the weight on top of him abruptly pulls away. Nines stares down at him, brow furrowed, and Gavin doesn’t even think  before waving him forward. “Go! M’ good. Go get ‘em,” he mumbles, and Nines gives a curt nod before vanishing. 

While the footsteps fade, Gavin slowly hauls himself upright. His head rings, but he grows steadier with every step. As he traces the spatters of fresh Thirium through the stockroom door and out the loading dock, he’s joined by a frantic Tina Chen, gun in hand. 

“Nines called it in, the runner’s a couple blocks away but he’s right behind. Fuck, I can’t believe we missed him!” she growls, and Gavin coughs out a laugh. 

“Hey, cheer up! Bet that bastard’s gonna get you a collar,” he says, and Chen grunts, and then they’re running. The first block passes in a blur of adrenaline and pain rocketing through his temples, pulsing with every thudding step Gavin takes, and when he reaches over to  grabs Chen’s shoulder, he’s wheezing so hard he can barely talk. 

“Hey, hold up--” Gavin doubles over, tries to collect himself. “They’re -- hah -- they’re on Fifth, right?” 

Chen checks her phone. “Yeah, c’mon!” 

“No, no, we can cut ‘em off,” Gavin manages. He hooks a thumb towards a side road, and Chen’s eyes go wide. 

 

Bleeker and Fifth is a strip of muddy ice wedged between two parking garages and the back end of a strip mall. Most importantly, it’s a dead end. Gavin and Chen skid into the ditches on opposite flanks of the road, guns raised. Street lights flicker in staccato beats of gold against the night sky, and the Stedler Hotel skyscraper glints overhead, just a few blocks away, and Gavin does not believe in omens. 

Gavin hears them before he sees them. First it’s frantic footsteps scrabbling through the snow, harsh against soft gasps and mechanical whirring. Then comes even footsteps, crisp and steady and Gavin feels his heart in his throat.

The android is barely on his feet. Spattered in blue, clenching his gushing stomach cavity, LED blinking panic-red - the face is indistinct, but the pain is clear. He stumbles forward on unsteady feet, twisting to look at the silhouette behind him. 

Nines doesn’t slow and he doesn’t falter. He moves with that same detached grace, one arm slowly rising, and Gavin sees what’s coming as clear as day. No cameras, no witnesses, no trial. Just one perfect shot. 

“Hands up!” Gavin howls without thinking, lunging forward. Nines whips towards him, arm falling immediately, and Chen sprints towards the perp. “You are under arrest!” Gavin continues on pure instinct, voice cracking, and he still can’t see Nines’ eyes. Chen reaches the perp, gun trained on his forehead, and Gavin slowly moves forward and his own voice rings hollowly in his ears. 

“You have the right to remain silent -- anything you say can and will be held against you --” Nines stands with the gun trained at nothing, LED spinning frantic yellow, he still hasn’t looked Gavin in the eye -- “you have the right to an attorney and if you can’t afford one, one will be appointed to you--” -- the android sinks to his knees with the click of the handcuffs -- “--with these rights in mind, are you still willing to talk about your charges?” 

“Fuck,” the android sobs through a crash of static, “fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m s- s- s- s-” 

The static clicks out. When Gavin reaches the android, all he hears is wind on the snow. 

 

*

 

“This sucks,” says Gavin blankly. 

“It’s an android club, what do you expect?” The Thirium stains on Chen’s jacket are beginning to darken, and there’s a smear of dirt on her forehead, but Chen is radiant with energy. Baby’s first big killer in the bag, alive even, Gavin thinks. Any other day, he’d be over the moon. 

“I expected,” Gavin begins, and sadly surveys the Iridescence breakroom. “Chairs. Chairs is what I expected.” 

Aside from a slick mechanical setup clearly built to charge multiple androids at once, the breakroom is completely empty. Nines slips into position next to the charger and presses a hand to its contact pad. His LED blinks blue, his expression unchanging. 

“Well, you can sit on it and spin. Don’t go anywhere, alright? I’ll finish booking the guy and then we’ll take statements,” Chen says, still breathless with victory. 

“Hey,” Gavin says, and kind of pats her on the arm. Chen looks at him. “Good fuckin’ work.” 

“You know it,” she says, smiling, and then she turns and she’s gone. 

It’s quiet, then. Gavin sneaks a glance at Nines and finds his eyes closed, his back relaxed against the wall. Air conditioning and power lines hum around them, footsteps and a few indistinct words from an animated Chen vibrating from the hallway, but there’s nothing to look at and nothing to do, so Gavin leans against the wall too. Hugs his arms, closes his eyes. 

“We can talk about it,” Nines says softly in the darkness. “If you want.” 

Gavin keeps his eyes shut. “Is that what you want?” 

“Mm.” 

There’s a rustle of fabric, a brief mechanical buzz as Nines disconnects from the charger, and then pressure settles against Gavin’s upper arm. Nines has moved against his side, still and heavy as ever, and Gavin’s head aches. 

“Think I knocked my head pretty good back there,” Gavin says tonelessly, eyes still shut. “Not sure what I saw. Chen’s not gonna rat you out either.” 

“I didn’t ask you not to talk.” 

“Yeah, well,” Gavin mutters. “You don’t ask me for much.” 

When Gavin opens his eyes, Nines is so, so close. He looks at Gavin with that wide-open intensity, blue eyes strangely soft, and Gavin almost laughs. 

“I don’t know what your deal is, man,” he says, still biting back that laugh, “I don’t. Dunno what you want outta that shit. Fuckin’ stupid. We had a good thing, right? Why the fuck are you--” The words don’t come. Gavin thumps his head against the wall. “I dunno. You tell me.” 

Nines almost smiles. “Alright,” he says, still so soft. “What should I tell you.” 

Normally Gavin would’ve deflected it, softened it, made it a joke. Tonight he just - hurts. “Tell me why an arrest isn’t enough.” 

_ Tell me why I’m not enough.  _

Another weightless moment. They’re pressed against the walls of the club, the air heavy and still. 

“I was built to complete a task.” 

“Yeah, you’re deviant now though, right?” 

“You don’t think humans were built for tasks as well?” Nines asks, so gentle. “Good runners, good writers. Good workers. We’re all just - what we need to accomplish. I know what I need,” he continues, tone hardening, “what  _ I  _ need, not just my code. Not what I was originally built for. What I am. Does that make sense?” 

“Damn,” says Gavin dumbly. “You’re all fucked up, huh?” 

Nines stops. His hands flex at his sides, moving with the silent heave of his chest, and for a moment all Gavin hears is the whirr of electronics. Their eyes meet, Gavin’s heart pounding in his throat, and Nines stares at him with a furrowed brow, and then Nines surges forward. 

Before Gavin can react Nines has already pulled him close, wrapping Gavin tightly into his chest. Gavin gives a muffled “Wh-“ and then Nines is kissing him,  _ kissing him,  _ hungrily chasing Gavin’s mouth and still pressing forward, pushing Gavin helplessly backward until his back jolts against drywall. 

“Wait, Nines, baby--” Gavin chokes out, and then bites down a moan as Nines fits a hand against the front of Gavin’s jeans. He feels Nines smile into Gavin’s mouth, one hand reaching up to clasp his neck, the other stroking his cock through his jeans, and it’s almost too much to bear. 

“Nines!” Gavin manages. “Nines, you don’t have to --  _ fuck! _ ” 

Nines squeezes, then, holds him tight for one breathless beat, then releases Gavin’s cock with an apologetic stroke. As Gavin doubles over in surprise, Nines presses his lips to the crown of Gavin’s head, and Gavin gasps involuntarily. Infuriating, God, it’s  _ infuriating  _ how tall Nines is, how  _ well  _ Gavin fits against him. Gavin huffs a few deep breaths, uncurling slowly, grateful for the steadying press of the wall behind him, and then Nines is everywhere. Gavin’s leather jacket crumples onto the carpet, and Nines pulls him even closer, and Gavin’s T-shirt tears in Nines’ grip. 

“My fucking shirt,” Gavin says weakly, and Nines laughs, rich and warm, Nines  _ laughs _ and leans forward and kisses him again, and Gavin’s head spins. 

“Relax,” Nines murmurs, one hand still resting on the back of Gavin’s neck, gently stroking with the pad of his thumb. “Let me take care of you.” 

“Mm,” Gavin sighs, and then Nines’ lips are working over the side of his neck, hungry and burning-warm, and Gavin uses all his strength to pull Nines closer. 

“You fuck,” he grits into Nines’ hair, “you fucking -- maniac --” and Nines is laughing again, and then they’re kissing properly. Gavin’s body sings with the release of the tension he’d carried all these months, and he yanks Nines down by the collar  _ hard.  _ “I’ll fucking kill you,” he gasps into Nines’ face between kiss after kiss, “I’m gonna kick your ass, I swear, I  _ swear-- _ ” 

Nines’ leg presses between Gavin’s thighs. The world whites out beyond the points of connection at their legs, at the press of Nines’ lips and the hand on the back of Gavin’s neck. Nines smiles, his movements slowing, and Gavin bites down on a whine of complaint. 

“I missed this,” Nines murmurs, hand raised to Gavin’s cheek, tracing along his scar. Gavin shivers. “I missed you.” 

Gavin forces his eyes closed. Nines is warm and firm against his neck, his waist, the crook of his thighs, and his veins are singing. “I’m right here,” he grits out, the relief so strong it comes out as anger, “I’m right here.” 

Nines stills in his grip. When Gavin opens his eyes Nines is spinning red, eyes frozen on the doorway beyond Gavin’s back. He releases Gavin with a gentle press backwards, his hand tracing away from Gavin’s neck, and Gavin feels a shift in gravity. 

“Listen,” Nines says, and then stops. Again Gavin feels time flex in on itself - the future played out frame-perfect twice. He knows what’s coming, and when Nines reaches out to trace the line of Gavin’s collarbone, the relief turns to rage. 

“No,” Gavin hisses, “no you fucking don’t.” 

Nines moves forward. He takes Gavin in his arms, presses a kiss to his forehead. When Gavin sags into his grip, Nines lets go, and before Gavin can say another word he’s gone. 

Chen strides into the breakroom, looking startled. “Hey, where’s Nines headed?” 

Mutely, Gavin shakes his head. 

“Alright, guess we’ll catch him later,” Chen says blandly. “You ready to give your statement?” 

And the fucked-up thing is, Gavin doesn’t have a choice. Gavin can’t sprint down that hallway and drag his partner back to reality, because he knows where Nines is going, and you don’t come back from that place. Gavin can’t even say a word to Chen because she’s a  _ good cop,  _ because everyone will know the truth soon enough anyway, and if Nines is going down, swear to God he’s going down alone. Gavin can’t jeopardize Chen’s case. He can’t say a word. 

Gavin gives his statement. Gavin processes a few witnesses. Gavin even helps the techs wheel complex machinery away from the crime scene, he even chats with the club owner about the Knicks. Gavin watches nighttime turn into hazy-gold early morning before he’s back in his cruiser, knees popping, his head like a hole. The radio clicks onto local news as he pulls onto the freeway, and there it is. Like it was waiting for him. 

_ “--another shocking tale of violence tonight -- hotel owner Charles Stedler has been found dead in his own hotel -- no suspect yet, but according to the DPD, it was a homicide. This story is ongoing.”  _

Gavin was alone. Nines was gone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gosh, guys, thank you SO MUCH for your kind words! You give me strength! And thank you for your patience. I’ve been dying to write this chapter, but work and school have been a trip. Thank you again for sticking around, and please lend me strength for the final chapter! Your comments are the most motivating thing in the world. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> Location notes: Shoetown is based on an abandoned industrial neighborhood I used to know in OH. Pretty sure it’s torn down now, rip. The Whitney is inspired both by Pruitt-Igoe in MI and the Stata Center in MA - both cases where the creators’ high-minded ideals didn’t line up with the actual needs of the project.   
> “Hey Vito why does an android club have bathrooms” - OSHA regulations, lol. I figure it’d take a while for US regulations to catch up to a minority group that doesn’t need to pee.


End file.
